Night had fallen. You climbed the stairs of your cool loft bed, where we got it, I do not remember but it was the coolest bed a kid could ever have. You cuddled under your purple floral comforter and Mom kissed your head. Tucked in and ready to fall fast asleep but as she said goodnight and closed your door a darkness filled your head.
This was normal for you. A pillowcase soaked in tears and memories that do not make sense.
Remember the prayer book we used to have? Where is it now? I don’t remember the last time we opened it. Collecting dust behind Dr. Seuss and Little Critter perhaps? Maybe nestled under the tulle skirts and retired dance costumes in our dress-up bin.
II. A Broken Baby
Florida
7/16/22
I wish Mom would have read us that book tonight. I wish she would have told you about Jesus. If she ever did, I do not remember. You stared up at the ceiling, tossed and turned. The only prayers I ever recall was when you wished you were never born. Did you know who you were talking to then? Or did your broken heart just talk to the air? “Why can’t I just be a normal kid?” you cried out in tears.
Sometimes Mom would peek her head in to check if you were asleep. At the crack of the doorway, you just pretend. It hurts. Your little heart hurts and you don’t understand why, and you have such a long life ahead. You carry a secret way too large for a kid. Whispers at night tell you, “You’re a bad child". "Please can I start over again?” I hear your plea.
My love, if you only knew that broken babies are held by God too.